Rain
andyscamera
So many
Secrets in this rain;
If folk should ask
What has wet
My sleeves, what should I say?
Izumi Shikibu
At night, on the street, rain seems to separate sound from action. You see a series of behaviors—a woman closes a car door, hurries up the sidewalk, unlocks the door to a house, enters and closes the door behind her—and a heartbeat later you hear the sounds—a muffled thump, the stutter of heels on cement, the jangle of too many keys, the clatter of a lock being turned, the inevitable soulcrushing sound of a door being closed forever. It’s a soft but percussive sound, the door closing—like the huff of air being expelled from the lungs after you’ve been punched in the gut.
What should you say if people ask why your clothes are wet? What can you say? What is there to say? So many secrets in this rain.
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